


I'm drunk and writing this because someone said it's a good way to delve into your subconsious.

by Ritiri



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Dissociation, Drabble, Drunkenness, F/F, Gen, Marvel Universe, Mental Health Issues, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 17:21:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16580780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ritiri/pseuds/Ritiri
Summary: I drank too much vodka and then wrote a fic about Wanda creating a virtual reality (this world) for me because Marvel verse was kicking my ass. My mind is riddled with anxiety and depression. It's therapeutic to pretend I actually have a reason for feeling this way.What if the characters we hate, and search bashing fics for are actually real people we once knew while we existed in a different world. We reads fics for hours on end because of our unresolved issues.





	I'm drunk and writing this because someone said it's a good way to delve into your subconsious.

**Author's Note:**

> I want to self publish on Kindle. I suck at writing, but I feel like my ego would force me to work on improving if there was a goal to aspire to. Thoughts?

I said yes to donning rose colored glasses, tinted with the alluring scarlet of the Witch's magic.

Ever since, I have lived in a world before beginnings and after happy endings; where mutants, aliens, shadow organizations, and Gods don't exist, except in people's imagination.

 

In the deepest of sleeps, such as now, I remember my truth. I remember my vicious selfishness in daring to ask this of her. There was never any question of her refusing. She never learnt to say no to me.

 

Face ashen and eyes red, not crackling power, but tiredness, she reached into my mind; and then she pulled and pulled.

 

It's now a barely renembered dream. Memory after memory has fallen apart like a jenga tower toppling after a crucial piece being pulled. What use is trying to remember some silly dream about cities on fire, people running in terror and a pair of crimson eyes following my dream self.

 

Sometimes, I dream of a world where men and women band together to fight for what is right. These people, heroes, are good, kind and relentless. I enjoy those dreams. In the real world, dog eats dog. No one jumps on top of a grenade to save others. I find myself wondering if that dream world, of virtues and vices come alive, would be better than this one, of hidden filth and all-consuming hopelessness. 

  
I got into an argument with my friend about trans rights a while back. I got so mad when she insisted that registration of trans individuals to simply the process of drafting them into sports teams, or giving them medical aid in emergencies. The only reason was to force segregation by forcing identification. I lashed out with a violence out of place for an argument between friends. It was like I thought she was suggesting they be rounded up and collared into submission, made subject to rules of an outside party vying for interminable control.

  
I thought I was asking for a life on the side of the greener grass, but it's synthetic and it doesn't release any oxygen. I'm stuck in a world that doesn't let me breathe and doesn't let me die.

  
I find my escape in comic books. Ironman, Steve Rogers, Wade Wilson, Pietro and Wanda Maximoff. The only thing keeping me going is immersing myself into the geek culture. It is here that I thrive and on every shooting star, I wish for a life as part of these worlds.

  
The Scarlet Witch had waved her hand and unraveled the mind of one she called friend, family and lover. She created a world where she was fiction. But I'd lived two decades mired in chaos, among heroes that both saved from and invited ruination.

  
She'd told me I would hate her for giving me what I wanted, but I had scoffed at the thought.

 

She was right. I obsessively read fiction depicting her as one who snatches away control. She's spiteful, petty and has no regard for mental autonomy. I hate her. I must, right? Because everytime I hear her name, I feel a throbbing begin at the base of my skull, signaling an oncoming headache. My pitches rises as I argue with her fans, and I tap away at my keyboard harsher than ever when I bash her. Surely, I must hate her. 

  
What a fool I am when I'm awake. For now, in my dream state, I know I hate her not for taking away my choice, but rather, for letting me make it. 


End file.
